“O impudent dwarf,” cried the Morholt in rage, and he raised his great sword and swung it with all his force, but Tristram was so far beneath him that the blade cut only the air above his helmet, and when the sword passed over him, he ran close in to the giant’s legs and he hacked them both off at the knees, reducing the Morholt in height by two yards.
Yet the Irish giant did not fall but rather standing sturdily on the stumps of his great thighs, like unto two great stone columns, he struck at Tristram again, and now his blow was lower and it took away the crest of Tristram’s helmet though did not quite reach unto the skull.
Then Tristram using all his force smote the Morholt through the waist, cutting off his lower portions altogether, and the huge trunk fell heavily onto the ground yet stayed upright and was as tall as Sir Tristram though three times as broad, and the Morholt was no nearer to dying, for (contrary to King Mark’s belief) he was immortal except if his head was lost. But his blood did flow vastly and cover the entire islet, the sand of which is colored red to this day, and he did wax wroth at the loss of his lower body, for he set great store in his privy parts, with which he had misused myriads of men, women, children, and even animals, and indeed he knew no other pleasure.
Therefore swearing dreadful oaths and spewing his loathsome breath onto Sir Tristram, who was slipping on the slimy blood thick as treacle, he struck at him and now he wounded Tristram grievously in the left side, and he would have done worse had not, at his current height, his sword been too long to swing with accuracy.
But notwithstanding this terrible hurt, which was near mortal, Sir Tristram then hacked the Morholt’s head off, but the neck being of solid bone, this job took more than one stroke, and a great piece of steel was broken from the blade of Sir Tristram’s sword and remained in the neck of the Morholt.
Now the giant’s head rolled along the beach and was soon a great ball of bloody sand, and then it went into the water, where it was washed off, discovering a face so hideous that a school of passing fish were struck dead by its sight and floated white bellies upwards.
But Sir Tristram was very near death himself, and when he cast off in the Morholt’s boat for to return to Cornwall, he did soon swoon from his hurt, and the winds instead carried him to the Irish shore near by, where he was beached and lay as if dead for three days, and worms did grow upon his wound and the great birds that feed on dead things did perch upon the gunwales and watch his body hungrily.
But at last some fisherfolk came there and determined, by probing him with sticks, that he was yet quick though almost dead, and so they transported him to the best surgeon in Ireland, who happened to be the daughter of the king, and her name was La Belle Isold. And now that Guinevere was married, Isold was the most beautiful maiden in the world, with hair black as sable, skin white and soft as swan’s-down, and eyes blue as the ocean under the morning sky.
Now when Isold bathed the forehead of Sir Tristram with the fragrant water of Cologne, he opened his eyes and believed he had died and gone to Heaven, where he lay in the lap of the Mother of God (for which blasphemous misapprehension he can be forgiven, owing to his near-morbidity at this time).
“My lord,” said La Belle Isold to him, “you are most sorely wounded, but methinks I can cure you, for you look to be a man of great worship.” And she cleaned his wound and anointed it with a wax into which quicksilver and gold had been mixed with balsam and the droppings of unicorns, which were not noisome but sweet and had great curative properties, and her own tears fell into this paste and made it even more efficacious, for she did weep over the hurt of this gentle, brave, and handsome knight, with whom she fell in love on the instant.
Now though Sir Tristram began to wend towards good health from the moment in which he first gazed into the face of La Belle Isold, he did not recover in full for many weeks, for the Morholt’s fell sword had hacked in him an hole the which could have contained two fists joined, and of his vital spirits he had lost so much that he could scarcely do more than flex his smallest finger. Therefore holding his head in her lap La Belle Isold fed him broths, and she bathed his face with scented oils and dried him with the costliest silk stuffs, and when he had got some better she brought her lyre and sang sweetly to him, for she had a fine Hibernian voice.
And all this while Sir Tristram was falling in love with her, so that he was in no hurry to recover, and when he grew strong enough he joined his own fine voice to hers, and together they sang so beautifully that the nightingales would fly to perch upon the window sill and listen in silent admiration.
Now one day a boastful, cowardly rogue walking along the shore did by accident find the great head of the Morholt, which being too ugly even for sea monsters to eat, had washed onto the beach on the tides, and it was yet whole, with the piece of Tristram’s sword stuck into the bone of the neck.
And supposing that the death of such a fearsome giant would be greeted happily at the Irish court, and that he would gain much worship as the killer of it, this poltroon got himself a cart pulled by an ox and with great labor put the head into it, the which it filled entirely, and he hauled it to the court of King Anguish.
But when the Irish king saw what had been brought, he ordered the braggart to be racked and then quartered, for the Morholt was his own dear brother and he made much grief over the head, not only for that he was related to him, but also the king did not now have a means to subdue Cornwall. And La Belle Isold also grieved piteously, for the Morholt had been her favorite uncle, who swung her twenty feet in the air when she was a child and he gave her sweetmeats and trinkets (and little did she know that he had stolen them from persons he had murdered! for ’tis natural that children think well of those who give them presents).
Now King Anguish found the fragment of sword embedded in his dead brother’s neck and he promised a great reward for the man who would find the blade it matched, for he much wanted to get revenge on the owner thereof, and his knights therefore looked high and low but could not find it because the sword was all the while in the scabbard hanging in the chamber where La Belle Isold was nursing Sir Tristram. And you can be sure that Tristram never told her who he was nor why he happened to be in Ireland, and he called himself Tramtrist, a wandering minstrel who had been set upon by robbers.
Then finally Tristram was completely well, and he knew his duty was to return to Cornwall and tell his uncle what had passed in regard to the Morholt. So he must needs bring to an end the first happiness he had ever enjoyed in his sad life long. Therefore, because he could not bear to say good-by to Isold his beloved, he stole away by night, and so as not to make a noise while stealing through the antechamber where she slept on her chaste bed, he left behind his armor and his sword as well, and secretly he went to the shore and took a boat and embarked upon the sea.
Now when La Belle Isold discovered next morning he was gone, she wept piteously and took his armor for to embrace it, and when kissing his scabbard she held it so that the sword did slip out as far as the notch in the blade, seeing the which she took the sword in wonder to her father the king, who fitted into it exactly the piece of steel taken from the neck of the Morholt.
And King Anguish swore a great oath of anger, and La Belle Isold thereupon came to hate Sir Tristram as violently as she had loved him earlier. “Would that I had anointed his wound with vitriol!” she cried, and then she wept in rage.
Meanwhile, Sir Tristram having caught a breeze was well on his way to Cornwall, and when he arrived at Tintagel and told King Mark that he should have no further Irish worry, there was a great celebration, but Tristram himself was again very sad.
And at this banquet his uncle the king spoke to Tristram as follows. “Dear Nephew, thou art a knight of the greatest worship. But art thou aware that in this world a person of prowess doth attract much envy? My barons, for example, do bear thee no good will for delivering them from the terror of the Morholt, whom they were too fearful to face. Instead they now brood over the matter of the succession after my
death, and worry that thou shalt inherit the crown.”
Now Sir Tristram, being the generous great knight that he was, did not suspect that his uncle the king was also envious of him and worried that he, as now the man of most worship in Cornwall, might well intend to usurp the throne, for King Mark took seriously only matters of power as concerns men, and lust with women.
Therefore Tristram said, “This is a most regrettable misapprehension. Did I seek a throne I should go home to Lyonesse and win back my rightful crown, most feloniously taken from my father.”
But neither did King Mark want to be deprived of Tristram’s services, for he did trust none of his barons and he believed, now that the Morholt was disposed of, that they might well turn on him: for this was a land where men were deceitful and the women loose. Thus he said to his nephew, “Abide here awhile, pray. When mine affairs are fully in order, we shall together mount an expeditionary force and attack Lyonesse. Meanwhile I must make my reign secure.”
“Your protection and surety are in King Arthur,” said Sir Tristram. “On the morrow I shall leave for Camelot, there to deliver to Arthur your pledge of fealty.”
But secretly King Mark intended to delay such expression as long as he could, forever if possible, and meanwhile to assemble an army and contrive to get Tristram to lead it in a war of conquest against Britain. For if the truth were known, Mark despised Arthur for what he had heard of him to the good, and he respected only tyrants, and furthermore he lusted for Guinevere, having heard she was the most beautiful queen in the world.
So now he did play for time, saying, “Well, there is no need for undue haste. For one, it is obvious that with Ireland out of the picture, I must needs be vassal to Britain.... Though indeed it is galling so to submit to anybody now that thou, mine own nephew, art at my side. With thy departure for Cornwall, Arthur’s best champion became his nephew Gawaine, whom thou hast defeated in a passage at arms.”
But Tristram had confessed this with reluctance, when his uncle had pressed him on the relative merits of the knights of the Round Table, and Mark’s subtle appeal to his vanity went for nought, for he had little. Now Tristram said uneasily, “Know you that we fought only by accident, Uncle, and that the issue was but a thing of chance. In another contest I might well be defeated by the gallant Gawaine, whom I admire greatly.” And in his noble innocence Sir Tristram added, “There is no hierarchy of worthiness amongst our company of the Round Table, and superlatives should be reserved for use only when speaking of God.”
“I have heard,” said King Mark, “that Gawaine is a notable whoremaster and that his greatest exploits are twixt the sheets and not upon the field.”
“O base calumniators who have told you that!” said Sir Tristram. “He is rather the defender and protector of all womankind.”
“Go to,” said Mark, and then he asked, “Tell me again, Nephew, whether Queen Guinevere be the most beautiful woman in the world.”
And thinking sadly of Isold, Tristram said, “The most beautiful queen, Uncle.”
“I gather thou art making some distinction,” said King Mark. “There is then some commoner who hath greater beauty?”
So Tristram found he must needs tell him of La Belle Isold, but never did he mention his great love for her.
“Ah, then,” said Mark when he had heard this, “she is both maid and princess and therefore would be quite suitable to be my queen. For now that I no longer pay the ruinous tribute to Ireland I can afford a splendid wedding, and every king should have a consort by his side to furnish stability to his throne.” He did not mention that he yearned for a son of his own blood, to whom to pass on the crown when he himself died, for as much as did his barons he enviously resented Sir Tristram’s claim and did in no wise believe his nephew’s disclaimer, for men who love power find incredible another’s professed lack of interest in it, and take it rather for a cunning ruse.
Now Tristram did gasp at his uncle’s speech, but King Mark thought this was because he believed the idea politically outlandish. Therefore he explained himself. “Perhaps it seems foolish to thee that I should apply to King Anguish for the hand of his daughter, I who but lately was his vassal and now, having killed his champion, do represent myself as his equal. Ah, Nephew, thou dost not understand the nature of kings! Be assured that he will be pleased. Having lost his brother the Morholt, he gaineth a son-in-law. Having failed to move me by force, he will hope to do so, more subtly, by love, for a piece of Ireland will sleep in Cornwall’s bed.”
Sir Tristram’s blood did go cold at this figure of speech. That La Belle Isold should use the same sheets as his uncle, who was a dotard of seventy years of age, was a terrible thing to envision. However, having witnessed the rage and hatred in which King Anguish ordered the search for the sword that had killed his giant brother, Tristram could not believe he would give his daughter to the enemy who had commissioned the killer. But he did not argue the point with his uncle at this moment.
But next King Mark said, “Now, Nephew, thou art again the very man I need for to send to Ireland once more.”
And Sir Tristram did go all numb with amazement and dread.
“Thou shalt apply to King Anguish,” said Mark, “acting as mine agent, for the hand of his daughter La Belle Isold, to be joined with mine in marriage.”
“Uncle,” said Sir Tristram, “you can not suppose that Ireland will smile upon me, who beheaded his brother, the knowledge of which act he will now be privy to, for I did leave behind my sword with its telltale notch.”
“Nephew,” said King Mark, “I understand these matters far better than thee. Thou shalt be as successful in this errand as thou wert in the warlike emprise. Now, when thou hast ate thy meat, which is growing cold, I would that thou leave forthwith for Ireland.”
And Tristram did groan horribly within though not audibly without, nor did he oppose the wishes of his uncle the king, for a knight is ever obedient to his sovereign and elder relatives, on pain of introducing impious chaos into the human condition, which has been given order by God. Therefore, though he was so sad as to make it seem he had thus far lived a life of bliss, he finished his mutton chop and pease pudding and then he went to the shore and taking the boat in which he had lately crossed the Irish Sea, he embarked.
And though he would have welcomed stormy seas, the which might have stove in his craft and drowned him, fate provided waters still as any pond on a warm summer afternoon and a strong but not unruly wind, and he was unhappily not long in reaching the Hibernian coast.
But when he reached the Irish court and was admitted to the presence of King Anguish, that monarch recognizing him directed that he be held prostrate before him so that he might strike off his head. And though Sir Tristram was happy with the prospect of death, he felt obliged at least to announce the message he had been given by his uncle to deliver.
“Your Majesty,” said he, “I have come as emissary of King Mark of Cornwall, who asketh the hand of your daughter La Belle Isold in marriage.”
“Unhand that knight,” King Anguish did command his retainers. “Now, Sir Tristram, is this proposal for a matrimonium ad morganaticum, or doth old Mark offer to make Isold a proper queen with all rank, titles, fiefs, and entailments, succession to which would pass to the children of such an union, in the usual order?”
“Certes, the latter,” said Tristram.
“Then I do accept,” said Anguish joyfully, “and now, my dear boy, let us celebrate this arrangement with food and drink.” And so saying he did embrace Tristram and lead him to the banquet hall.
Now Tristram was sadder than ever, and as for La Belle Isold she did weep in hatred and rage against both him and King Mark when her father informed her she must go to Cornwall forthwith and be married.
“Father,” said she, “would that you were rather sending me to my death.”
But King Anguish believed this to be but girlish foolishness, and he had no time for her, having to arrange for as mean a dowry as he could get King Mark
to accept, whom he knew as a lustful man, and he believed therefore that a royal Irish maidenhead would count with him as treasure beyond gold.
But Isold was attended by her loyal gentlewoman Brangwain, who had served her since she was a child and who loved her greatly, and actually it was Brangwain who brewed the potions and philters on which Isold had established her reputation as a physician, and which had healed Sir Tristram of his dreadful wound. And this Brangwain did love Sir Tristram with a great passion, but secretly, for she was plain and not of his rank and could therefore enjoy his love only through bringing him and her lady together, as would be proper for a faithful waiting-woman, and then she could steal some token from him and place it between her breasts, and in the morning see his impress upon the sheets where he had lain all the night with her gracious mistress.
Therefore when Isold, quite out of her wits with furious sorrow, came to her and asked for a poison with which to end her life so that she would not have to endure the shame of being escorted by Tristram to marry King Mark, the two men she hated most in all the world (and the former even more than the latter), Brangwain agreed to do this, on the condition that Isold would never swallow it until they were upon the sea, and also that Sir Tristram be induced to drink of the same potion.
“Yes,” said La Belle Isold, “thou hast a finer cunning than mine, dear Brangwain. This will be a good revenge, for the ship will come to port bearing not only the corse of the intended bride, but that of nephew and finest knight as well.”
So Brangwain went to brew the decoction, but instead of using adder’s venom, crocodile tears, and the poisonous sweat of the toad, she rather put into the cucurbit a mandrake root, which shrieked when it was pulled from the ground and screamed when boiled, the ginger which turns Oriental peoples yellow with concupiscence, powdered pearls in which the aphrodisiac humors of the wanton mollusc collect, and the spunk of the unicorn, and from these arose a steam into the nose of the alembic and then turned into drops of clear fluid, the which fell until they filled a little silver flask with a distillation not of Death but rather of the most ardent and enduring Love.
Arthur Rex Page 14